


blood of my enemies, blood of my friends (but not your blood)

by sassassassin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post S8E3, Post battle of Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-15 23:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18679318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassassassin/pseuds/sassassassin
Summary: She may have taken the lead when she had sought release from him, but she was putting the aftermath in his hands.Arya/Gendry post battle of Winterfell.





	1. a lady, a killer, a slayer

When the Night King exploded into shards of ice, Arya Stark finally breathed.

As the storm slowly dissipated, the calm resolve that enveloped her and brought her in front of the weirwood shattered at once. One step at a time, she slowly walked towards Bran, a mix of wildness and relief in her wide eyes, and the dagger still within her grasp. She fell to her knees, and put her head on his lap, clutching at his cloak with a force that turned her palms nearly as red as the blood coating the snow around them.

 _Blood of my enemies, blood of my friends_ , she mused, thinking about Theon’s lifeless form. 

“Remember that one time I bested you when I shot an arrow straight into the bull’s eye?” she started. “Mother was so angry that she confined me to my chambers for nearly a fortnight.”

“You’ve always been a better fighter than I, Arya,” she heard her brother, or someone akin to him speak. She wasn’t sure about who Bran was anymore. “It was your destiny all along.”

She felt his hand on top of her head, slowly patting her hair. She was unsure whether he was doing it to comfort her because he found it within himself to care, or because he somewhat knew that she needed the soothing touch of a loved one. But knowing what she knows about Bran, she wasn’t sure if his moment of unexpected affection had the desired effect on her.

She looked up at him, and he halted the movement of his hand to look back at her, his eyes blank and his mouth set into a tight line.

“You knew?”

He stared for a moment, and his lips parted slightly to let out a visible breath. “I can neither see nor predict the future. I can only weigh the odds, and the dagger seemed at best odds within your hands.”

She closed her eyes, her grasp tightening around the weapon, refusing to relax her hold of fear that the dead would rise again and break the illusion of peacefulness. Perhaps the Night’s King had succeeded, and his icy hand had crushed her windpipe after all. Maybe she had been dead this whole time, and this was but a dream to give her a semblance of relief for just a moment, relief she had desperately needed for the longest time, relief she hadn’t felt since her father’s untimely death all those years ago. But this fleeting thought immediately dissolved when she released Bran’s cloak and tentatively touched her throat, wincing at the soreness and the coldness that met her skin. At that moment, Arya knew that it was real.

She had defeated the Night’s King, and per the sky’s dim sunrise, she had brought an end to the endless night.

“You can breathe now,” said Bran, a near smile on his lips. A ray of sunlight peering through the tree lit up his face beautifully, and she could not help but stare at him in wonder.

“Will you ever be the same again?”

“I don’t believe so,” he replied, a tint of regret in his tone that would’ve escaped her if she weren’t so observant. “I know far too much of the world to be the child I was before. Besides, what purpose is there for a crippled boy in this world?”

“You have us, your family.”

Bran sat there, in deep contemplation, his eyes forever void of any emotion. Arya regretfully stood up, just in time as she heard running steps approaching the Godswood, and she saw Jon coming towards them, breathing heavily. He was covered in blood and his eyes were wild with fear, but apart from that, he was _alive_.

“Bran! Arya!”

“Jon,” she beamed, trying to project her voice, but all could come out was a raspy whistle. She wanted to run to him, but she could not move away. Her feet stood still in the midst of the remains of the Night’s King.

There was no need, for Jon had already reached her. He grabbed her, kissing her head repeatedly, his other arm holding Bran.

“You’re alive, I can’t believe it’s over, what happened?”

The questions poured out of his mouth like a river, his eyes wildly trailing between his two siblings, as if he was afraid they would disappear if he trailed his eyes anywhere else. Other survivors poured into the Godswood, shouting for each other and hugging their fellow companions, and Arya realized how long she had been kneeling in front of Bran after the defeat of their enemy.

“We have won,” simply stated Bran. “The long night is over.”

“He defeated the Night King?” asked Jon, looking at his old friend’s body lying in the snow.

People were standing around them, holding each other up, exhaustion and relief written all over their faces. They were all looking at the three siblings with gratefulness, muttering between themselves about _The King In The North_.

“Theon tried to kill him, and it cost him his life. He has fought valiantly, and his sacrifice will not be in vain. Without his death, Arya would not have had time to deliver the final blow and save us all.”

The murmurs got louder, and people were looking at her with wonder and disbelief, and she could not help but feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

_I am no hero. I do not want to be a hero._

Jon shifted his gaze to her, and held her at arm’s length to look into her face.

“It-it was you? But how?” he asked.

“Just like you taught me. Stick em with the pointy end,” she smiled.

Jon laughed, a laugh she had not heard from him in years, and she felt transported back to a different time, a time when he wasn’t so morose, and she was neither an assassin nor a _kingslayer_. A time when her father was still alive, and when her mother would till chastise her for being too boyish and rowdy. _Look where that brought me now, mother._

Jon hugged her once again, as the people cheered around them. The ruckus must have alerted others, as the Hound came in with Ser Davos, followed by Sansa and Tyrion, as well as the other survivors from the crypts who looked like they’ve had a hard time as well.

Before she knew it, she was in her sister’s arms, and she almost felt like crying because they were safe. Her family was safe but _not all her family and where was that bull-headed idiot…_

“You’re the strongest person I know,” she cried softly. “Thank you.”

A deeper voice sneered, coated with pride. “Takes a cold bitch to kill an ice king.”

The Hound towered over her, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion, but his eyes vibrant with life. She gave him a nod, removed herself from her sister’s embrace, and forced herself to move. Her legs felt heavy, and her head was spinning, a thundering headache pounding away. But she pulled through, making her way through the crowds of people who made way for her, their hero, the bringer of the end of the long night.

Yet, Arya only had one single thought in her mind.

_I need to find him._

“Where are you going?” asked Jon with concern.

Arya didn’t stop or look back, fearing that her legs may give out from under her. “I have to find someone.”

“Who are you looking for? You have to rest, you just killed the Night’s King!” he exclaimed with worry at the sight of her wobbling figure.

“The smith. I have to find Gendry,” she said, eyes wild.

Her brother stared at her retreating form, confused and worried. What would she need the blacksmith for? They had won, there was no need for any weapon now.

“Come on Jon,” said Sansa, putting a comforting hand on his arm. “She just killed the Night’s King. I don’t think you need to worry about her. She can take care of herself. We should start rallying the survivors.”

Jon nodded half-heartedly, nonetheless agreeing with Sansa. _She’s the smartest person Arya knows_.

“The Queen, we have to find Daenerys.”

* * *

 

When Arya found him, she felt relief washing over her like a tidal wave.

He was walking amongst the bodies, both from the army of the dead and from their fallen brothers and sisters. She knew that they had to burn all of them, but the thought still disgusted her. _They deserve better_.

He was frantically looking around him, flipping the bodies of those faced down, seemingly looking for someone. She knew that he was searching for her when she noticed half of the weapon he made for her clutched in one hand, and a battle-axe in the other. She was so silent that he didn’t turn around until she was mere feet away from him, and only when she made the effort to be loud and noticeable. He turned abruptly, ready to swing. _The trauma would never let them be now._

“ _Gods_ ,” he breathed in disbelief, dropping the weapons. They clanked loudly on the floor, and he stood there, mouth wide open and his arms hanging by his sides. She took the moment to look at him and noticed a few scratches and a gash on his arm. But otherwise, he seemed unharmed, albeit tired.

“I was happy. I had my family around me, and they were safe and sound, unharmed and _alive_.”

He blinked.

“…But you were missing,” she finished, chewing on her lower lip.

“Arya,” he whispered, taking a tentative step towards her. She relished the fact that this may be the third time he had called her by her name. It sounded so sweet, so delightful coming from him, and she recalled how he had whispered it at the beginning of the long night, full of awe and hardly concealed desire.

She swallowed, and suddenly felt the need to wrap her arms around herself in a moment of vulnerability. She had been completely bare in front of him merely hours before and had not felt the need to hide. But this was different, because she realised that she was still holding the dagger she had plunged into the Night’s King’s heart. A killer could not be vulnerable. A killer was not allowed. _And yet…_

“Do you remember when I told you that I could be your family? You said that I wouldn’t be your family. That I’d be your lady. But how can a killer be a lady?” she laughed humourlessly. “I’ve killed the living, I’ve killed the dead, I’ve killed more than I can count.”

“You-”

_You’re a killer, a monster, you’re not my family, you’re no one…_

“You’re safe,” he said, reaching for her.

His hands cupped her face, wiping the blood that had dripped down her cheek from the cut on her forehead. His eyes were unbelievably blue, a blue that brought her comfort instead of fear for the first time that night, eyes that inspired vulnerability instead of blood-thirst.

She may have taken the lead when she had sought release from him, but she was putting the aftermath in his hands.

“Gendry, you’re so stupid,” she muttered, a grin threatening to take over her face.

“And you’re so brave,” he replied. “I don’t care about any of that. You may be a killer, you may be whatever you claim to be, but you’re Arya for me, and I’m just a bloody bastard.”

“You’re also very stupid,” she repeated, dumbfounded.

He laughed, he laughed loudly until he chest heaved with every sound, until she couldn’t help but join him. They must have been a peculiar sight, his hands on her cheeks, both drenched in their own blood and the blood of the dead.

When he stopped laughing, his hands trailed would to her neck, gently probing at the mark around her throat. “I hope whoever did this to you died a painful death,” he said, venom seeping through every word.

“It was the Night’s King. I killed him.”

He stopped for a moment, his eyes searching hers, before dropping down to look at the weapon in her hands. “I’m glad it was you.”

“Nobody puts their hands on me without consequences.”

“What are my consequences?” he replied, quirking an eyebrow.

 _He’s getting bold, he must’ve taken a blow to the head_ , she thought, feeling her face heat up at his remark. “Easy there.”

He reddened, thinking he had overstepped his boundaries. “I’m sorry m’lady.”

She grimaced in annoyance, finally finding the courage within herself to drop the dagger and grabbed the front of his tunic.

“Oh come on, you daft man,” she said, getting on her tiptoes and reaching for his lips, before kissing him right there and then, surrounded by death and filth and the smell of decay.

At that moment, none of that mattered to either of them. All they cared about was the feeling of their bodies pressed together, the feeling of warmth emanating from each other after a long cold and lonely night full of uncertainties. Unsure whether they would ever see each other again, whether the hours they had spent exploring each other’s bodies meant anything for the other.

But they couldn’t care less, because his hands were on her neck, feeling her quickening pulse through his fingertips, and she could feel his heart hammer away at his chest through his tunic. He must have lost his armour during the battle and she thanked whoever was listening to her for keeping him safe because he was _her family, her family…_

 

 


	2. for i must not fear

 

"So, you're shacking up with the she-wolf?"

Gendry almost spit his ale, taken out of his reverie by the impressive wildling seated next to him. Tormund all but laughed, patting him violently on the back.

"Good for you, my boy! I hope she fucks the way she fights!"

Gendry reddened, visibly uncomfortable. "What are you talking about?"

"I've seen you together after the battle. You should be proud to be with a woman like her, a warrior! Just like my dear Brienne, how I long to steal her away to my bed."

The said knight was sitting a few seats away, talking in whispers to Jaime Lannister, and doing her best to ignore Tormund's provocative comments. Gendry noticed Jon, seated next to the queen and Lady Sansa, sending them curious glances, alerted by the commotion caused by Tormund's boisterous nature.

"We're not-It's not like that," stammered Gendry, avoiding Jon's eyes, but his words sounded like a pathetic excuse to his ears. They  _were_  like that.

"And why not?" exploded the redhead, a glimmer of madness in his eyes. "You look at her with fire in your eyes, and she looks at you like a wolf stalking its prey. Get on with it! The dead may be vanquished, but winter is yet to leave place to spring and fucking is still best!"

"That's enough," spoke Ser Davos, appearing behind them. "You'll drive the poor lad insane. Look at him, he's mortified."

Gendry smiled gratefully at the older man, who returned the smile.

"Telling The King in the North about your Baratheon heritage, and now this? You love to play with fire my boy," muttered Davos, glancing at Jon pointedly, before walking away.

Gendry ran a hand through his hair and his face, feeling it burning with the force of a thousand suns, and sighed in relief when he saw that Jon was absorbed in a conversation with his queen. Tormund grumbled under his breath, and finally turned his attention to someone else. Gendry could finally breathe and enjoy his ale in peace, absorbed in his own thoughts.

_Oh, and what thoughts they were._

What else is there to think about for a bastard but his lady love, the one who has captured his heart and soul?

 _Plenty_ , he thought, his eyes roaming the room to watch the various lords and ladies sitting around the hall. He was under no illusion that he was but a lowborn, and that one of these men may be betrothed to Arya in the future. Could he still be around to see it all? To see her be swept away by a lord who could offer her all the riches she ever dreamed of? Does Arya even desire a life of nobility as the free wolf she was? Knowing her, she probably does not. However, after everything she's been through, perhaps she may start craving a simpler life, and settle down at Winterfell with the man she loved. But how could be so sure about that? And could that man be him?

He could not answer to that.

Bedding a woman was far different than having her. Not that Arya was something to be  _had_ , but having her in his bed that one faithful night was something he could have never imagined in his wildest dreams. However, having her body to his disposition to please and map cannot be compared to having her undivided attention, her adoration, and her  _love_. These were all things Gendry all but craved to have.

He had last spoken to her when she had come to him after killing the Night's King. After that, he had hardly seen her around the castle, and even less at the forge where he was salvaging the weapons he had made to fight the dead. Whenever he would hear someone coming inside, he would expectedly turn around, hopeful and optimistic, but it was never her. She would never be so noticeable.

Yet, her weapon was still awaiting her. He had repaired it, and it lay hidden wrapped in cloth underneath his table. Every time he had caught a glimpse of it, he was not sure whether to feel silly or hopeful. He had made his intentions clear to her, and he was only waiting for her to take the lead. After all, he could march into her chambers, and proclaim his love and affection, which he desperately wanted to do. But he knew that it would only scare her away, and he did not want to lose her over such a foolish mistake. It was best to give her time, let her test the grounds and decide to take the next step and approach him with her own intentions.

 _If she had any at all_ , he thought morosely _. Family could mean a lot of things._

"If you keep thinking so hard, I fear that your brain may spill out of your ears."

Gendry jumped, startled by Arya's unexpected appearance. She was already sitting in the vacant seat next to him, slowly sipping at her own glass, and watching him with an undecipherable twinkle in her eye.

"You should smile a little, scowling makes you look like Jon."

"Arya-I mean, my lady," he said.

She frowned at the title and put her glass down. "Not a lady."

"It would be improper for me to call you by your name around all these people," he replied, scratching the back of his hair. He really needed to grow it out, the cold did not feel so good on his scalp.

She grinned, crossing her arms in front of her, and his eyes darted down to the famed dagger peeking out on top of them. "It was improper for me to give you my maidenhead, and yet, it was given, and here we are."

"Arya," he whispered, looking around him, "someone may hear you."

"Only a miserable shit with no friends would be listening on our conversation," she said, rolling her eyes at him.

Gendry couldn't help but chuckle, he had missed the banter they shared. It had been childish all those years ago, the way a big brother would pester his younger sibling, or the way a boy would cling to his older brother's side to torment him, but not the way a man would tease a woman that he loved. Now, however, it was entirely different for him. He was surrounded by people, and despite her getting him all flustered and tongue-tied, she was the only person he wanted to talk to.

"You should come to my chambers after you're done eating," she casually suggested.

"Why?" he asked stupidly.

She stared him down, her mouth pursed, and he was unsure whether she wanted to hit him or curse him out. For being such a good fighter and talented blacksmith, Gendry could be so dense sometimes. "I want a repeat of that night, and I think my bed would be more comfortable than a few sacks of grains."

 _Oh_.

"That's improper," he all but said.

Arya was starting to be profoundly bored with his reticence when she knew that he was just as eager as she was. Underneath his uncertainty, she could see his barely concealed trepidation at the idea. "Fuck propriety. You can't take my maidenhead twice. What will they do? I've saved everyone's lives, I think they owe me the freedom to do as I please."

"But-"

"I will not take a no from you for whatever lame excuse you'll come up with, unless you truly don't want to. I believe that I deserve to do something I really want to do, and I have no qualms about seeking it out."

Before he could utter anything else, Arya got up from her seat, leaned over and kissed him in front of everyone. Lords, ladies, The Queen, and her  _family_. He could only stare at her, dumbfounded by her boldness. He watched her retreat, a playful smirk on her face, leaving him behind in the den of wolves to be eaten and chewed up by everyone,  _especially_  Jon. She even turned around at the last second, and threw him a playful wink, daring him to follow her.

Gendry swallowed apprehensively, dreading the reaction of those around him, and forced himself to look back at his cup and drown the whole thing at once. He nearly choked on his ale when he felt someone violently grip the back of his tunic, and his eyes met The Hound's scarred face.

"I can't wait to see what the King in the North thinks of this," he grinned manically. "Hope the girl's giving you hell."

"I think she's giving him heaven," interjected Tormund, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. "Do not be ashamed, young smith. Women like her are fighters, they have a mind and a sword of their own, The Promised One is not her brother's to guard."

His eyes immediately met Jon's when he looked away, and he cursed himself for sitting in his field of vision. His face was pale, and his brows were furrowed. He could see Lady Sansa's hand on his arm, the only thing keeping him from leaping across the room. Gendry certainly didn't want Jon, a man who trusted him and let him into his home to discover than he was going behind his back to cosy up with his favourite sister, to get his hands on him.

So, Gendry did the only sensible thing he could, and left the room as fast as he could.

* * *

When he finally found Arya's chambers, the door was slightly ajar. Gendry took it as an invitation, and immediately pushed through, closing it behind him. The said woman was sitting on her bed, toying with the dagger she had used to save all of humanity.

Gendry felt foolish, standing in the chambers belonging to the woman he loved, when minutes ago, he told himself he would not walk to her and proclaim his love in fear that he would scare her away. And yet, there he was, a desperate man ready to pour his heart out.

"Took you long enough."

"This castle is really big. Is this how it feels to grow up rich? Constantly looking for rooms?" he teased, walking up to her.

She grinned, sheathing the dagger. "There's also a lot of useless needlework, but yes, that's the gist of it."

He sat down next to her, marvelling at the softness of her furs. A lot of beds were now vacant after the massacre, and he was able to get his own comfortable bed, which was more than he could ever hope for. But it did not compare to the bed of a lady.

"Was you just did was cruel. I think your brother is going to kill me now. He wasn't even aware that we knew each other."

She scoffed. "Jon's not going to kill you, I'll make sure of it. I can protect you against anything."

"I don't doubt that you can, milady. Jon may not kill me, but he may choose to hurt me. Badly."

"Again with the formalities," she said, rolling her eyes. She stood up directly in front of him and looked into his eyes with an intensity that scared him. "Why didn't you come to see me?"

"Why didn't  _you_  come to see me?" he interjected.

She looked at him for a moment and huffed lightly. "I don't know."

"Then why am I here, in your chambers?" he added.

"I thought I made myself clear down there. My bed  _is_  more comfortable-"

 _More excuses_ , thought Gendry, bitterly.  _Screw this_.

"I need to know why you're doing this," he cut her off. "You're a lady, and I am but a poor bastard from Flea Bottom. But I am also a man who's in love with you. I would give my life for you, and my heart cannot bear it if you were doing this to fill a need that can be filled at any whorehouse."

* * *

Declaring his love for her should have surprised Arya, who felt her heart beating faster at his words, but the revelation of his feelings felt more like relief than anything else. Spending so many years detached from others, from herself, and from her humanity had turned her into a recluse, a recluse from her own feelings. Hearing Gendry be so open about his made her feel things she could not put into words, things she could only show him with her body.

She leaned over him once again, because she could not get enough of his lips, and kissed him, expecting him to eagerly return the embrace. He reciprocated for a split second, before gently holding her arms and pushing her away.

"Arya," he whispered, pain clearly written on his face. "Please."

She huffed, frustratingly. Did he not want her? Did she misread him? What did he want?

"What?" she exclaimed. "You seemed to like it before. Not so interested anymore?"

"Don't do this," he replied, his eyes hard. "You know that it is not true. I'm only a simple man, and a man can only take so much toying with his heart."

"Then what? What is it that you want?" she nearly shrieked, startled by her own emotions. Only he could bring them out of her like a torrent.

In that moment, it felt like they had switched places. He was talking about his feelings, and yet being calm and rational. She was avoiding hers, but they were written all over her face. She may have not feared death, but she feared life now, a life where she was vulnerable.

"I want you to talk to me, tell me if you want me," he said.

He spoke with such gravity that Arya did not know whether she should laugh or cry. The first would hurt his feelings, and the second would hurt hers. She chose another option.

"You know I do," she reluctantly admitted. "You make my blood boil, and I am afraid. I can kill without hesitation, I can take down death itself, but you scare me."

His hands slid down her arms, and he took her hands into his, gently rubbing his thumbs over her palms. The gesture was soothing, and so tender that Arya felt like she could cry.

"You don't have to be scared of me. I'm the one who should be scared. I'm just a bastard, and you could be married off to a lord any day now. The thought itself terrifies me, because I know that when that happens, I would never bring myself to leave. I would stay right here in Winterfell through all of it just to be near you."

Arya laughed. "And who would marry me off to a  _lord_  of all things? I've never wanted to be a lady, and Jon would never force me to do anything. If it comes to it, we will run away and go somewhere very far."

"I didn't know you would want me to come with you."

"If I leave you behind, you may get yourself a wife, and I don't want you to marry someone else either, lady  _or_  commoner," she confessed.

Gendry smiled in delight, his hands squeezing hers. "Where would you like to run away to?"

Arya thought for a moment. "I don't know. Maybe I would like to go back to Braavos one day. It's warm there, I think you would like it."

"I think I would like to be anywhere as long as you're there with me, my lady."

Arya didn't interject at the formality but squeezed his hands back. Gendry gently tugged her towards him. He took her back into his arms and she crawled onto his lap. She wrapped her arms around his chest and placed her head on his heart. He was thrumming with life, a stark contrast to the dead they had fought less than a fortnight ago. She took a deep breath, and closed her eyes, letting her guard down for once. He wrapped his arms around her, and gently kissed the top of her head. In that moment, she knew that if she plunged her dagger into his chest, he wouldn't shatter like the Night's King, but offer her his heart with his dying breath.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im back my duudes  
> there will be a third and final chapter after this one  
> hope yall like this, leave your impressions, i love reading them they make my day
> 
> til next time!


	3. what's in a name

The festivities were still going strong in the great hall. Gendry had convinced Arya to accompany him back and eat something when she revealed that she had only taken a few bites and barely drank any ale _. I like to be sharp at all moment, we're in the midst of a war after all_ , she explained.

However, Gendry felt apprehensive. Arya had kissed him in front of everyone, and he had no idea how he would be welcomed after the fact. Jon didn't seem pleased at the sight of his sister cosying up with him. And so, he decided that they would quickly grab some food and find somewhere private to eat.

Now, he shall try not to get noticed by Jon.

The said man -Lord, King, he wasn't so sure- was drinking madly, prompted by many others surrounding him. Giantsbane, elated and red in the face, was cheering for him to down the whole drink. Even Lady Sansa was joining in, smiling from ear to ear. An unusual sight for the usually taciturn yet kind woman.

"I'll grab something for both of us if you want to wait for me," he suggested.

"Four hands are better than two," replied Arya, eyeing the food. Her appetite seemed to have come back.

Gendry absentmindedly nodded, and they made their way through the tables, grabbing whatever they could get their hands on- whatever food was left from the feast. Luckily, they were mostly unnoticed by the intoxicated crowd, and Jon was engrossed by the drinking competition.

"Gendry," spoke a voice he would have never thought would utter his name.

He slowly turned around, his hands holding a plate of food, and came face to face with the Dragon Queen. Jon's attention was also on him, as well as the whole hall.

"That is your given name, isn't it?" she spoke again, her voice measured.

"Yes, your Grace," he replied.

He could feel a presence near him. He glanced sideways and saw that Arya had walked up to him. She stood a few feet away, tensely watching the exchange with a hand on her priced dagger.

"You are Robert Baratheon's only known son," said Daenerys, and Gendry thought that his world was crashing down on him. "You stand in my presence, aware that this is the same man who  _took_  my family's throne and relentlessly tried to have me murdered since I was but a little babe."

"Yes," he replied after a beat, his tone almost pleading. "In my defence, your Grace, I was unaware who my father was until years after his death. I have no attachment to him or to the Baratheon name. My uncle even tried to have me executed in the name of the Lord of Light."

"Yes," she said, her gaze unfaltering, "your father is dead, and so are his brothers. Tell me, who is the Lord of Storm's End now?"

Gendry was confused. "I don't know, your Grace."

"Does anyone?" she said, and no one uttered a word. "I have seen you fight with a hammer. I have been told that you are the image of your father in his glory days, but I do hope you do not have his temper or whoring ways."

Gendry saw Jon's eyes harden at that, his eyes drifting between him and Arya.

"I think you should become the Lord of Storm's End," she concluded.

Gendry stood there, mouth agape in shock. "With all due respect, your Grace, I can't be a lord. I'm just Gendry Rivers, a simple bastard from flea bottom."

"No, you are hereby Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm's End, the lawful son of Robert Baratheon, because  _that_  is the name  _I,_ Daenerys Targaryen, the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, am giving you."

The newly legitimised man looked around him, as stunned as the audience, and saw Ser Davos stand with a glass in his hand, ready to speak.

"I-I am honoured your Grace," he stammered out, before the knight could say anything, "but I do not know how to be Lord of anything. I hardly know which fork goes with which meal."

Daenerys smiled, but the smile was not reaching her eyes. "Perhaps a Lady could help you with that," she stated, her eyes drifting towards Arya. She had clearly seen their little exchange earlier.

Gendry felt fear settle in his chest and turned to look at the woman standing behind him, his eyes searching hers, but she wasn't looking back at him. She way staring at the queen, her eyes cold, and her grip tight around the dagger attached at her waist.

_Not a lady._

"Arya," he muttered.

"Congratulations," she said, still looking at the queen. When she shifted her gaze to him, they weren't as cold anymore, but deeply sad. "That's all you've ever wanted, Lord Baratheon. You'll be a wonderful Lord, and any Lady would be lucky to have you."

"To Lord Baratheon of Storm's End!" cheered Davos.

"To Lord Baratheon!" cheered the room.

But Gendry was not paying attention to any of it. His eyes were on Arya, who maintained her gaze on him for another second, and promptly turned back and left the hall.

All he wanted to do was follow her, explain himself, but he was surrounded by people acclaiming him for his newly appointed title.

He lost sight of his lady.

_Ours is the fury._

* * *

Later that night, after Gendry had searched what he felt like was the entirety of Winterfell, he went back to the forge to hammer away some of his frustrations and anxieties.

He was mending a sword he had picked up from the pile awaiting to be repaired, when he saw Arya's staff peeking out under the cloth he had hidden it under. They had been doing so well. She had started to be honest about herself, even a little vulnerable. It had felt like progress on both of their parts, but then, his fate had decided to create a chasm between them. Turns out, the ghost of his father had come back to repeat history and separate a Baratheon from his Stark love once again.

He wanted to explain himself, tell her that a name was but a name, but deep down, he did not really believe himself.

A name was not only a name when you're a bastard. A name was a meal on his table every day, a name was never going to sleep on an empty stomach, praying that death may take him during the night so that he did not have to fight his way through the world for a bite. A name was pride, a name was worthiness, worthiness of a certain lady, of the Night's King-slayer.

Gendry breathed out, putting the hammer he held down. He closed his eyes and leaned on the table, steadying himself, trying to clear his head from the upsetting thoughts. He had lost her once, and it was his fault for refusing her, and the gods had decided to give him a second chance when he came to Winterfell and found her to be alive and well. She was certainly different, but deep down, she was still Arry, the little girl who refused to back down, the little girl who  _knew_  that she was Arya Stark of Winterfell.

He was the one who hardly knew who he was, always searching for an identity amidst the chaos plaguing the Seven Kingdoms. He could  _finally_  put a name to his shadow, he had  _finally_  gained something.

But without her, it would not feel like he had always wanted it to feel.

He knew how to fix weapons, but he did not know how to fix this.

"Gendry," spoke a voice.

Jon was standing behind him, his sword by his side. His eyes were hard, although a little troubled. Gendry could see that he still had a little bit of ale in him, for he was not standing completely straight. Gendry almost reflexively walked up to him to help him stand straight, but he recalled that Jon may not appreciate it at the moment.

"Your Grace," replied Gendry.

"Is it not Jon anymore?" he questioned. "We are friends, like our-our fathers were."

"It would be improper," said Gendry. He felt like he was repeating himself all the time nowadays.

Jon nodded, walking past the smith. He was looking around the forgery, observing the weapons lying around on the tables, on the floor, in piles. Weapons belonging to their fallen friends and belonging to those who were lucky enough to survive The Long Night. He stopped by the table that used to be piled high with newly forged dragon glass, but now had broken weapons still covered in blood.

"Your sister once stood there, threw three daggers past me, and ordered me to forge her a weapon," he commented. "She has perfect aim."

Jon smiled. "Aye, she does. She has yet to tell me how she learned all those things."

Gendry nodded. He was also unaware of what had happened to her to undergo such drastic changes. She had yet to tell him what happened to her after he was taken by the Red Woman.

He took a deep breath and looked Jon in the eyes. "Your Grace, what you've seen earlier at the feast-"

"Gendry," he stopped him, "my sister chose you -or rather  _claimed_  you publicly, or she would not be willingly kissing you in plain sight. Sometimes I wonder if she is more wolf than human. But despite my reactions, she does not owe me any justification for her acts. She was always so much smaller than I am, and I am not very gifted in my height, but lately, I feel her bigger than ever."

"She is," whispered Gendry.

"Lord Gendry Baratheon," spoke Jon, his voice now loud and firm, and the smith understood why he was chosen to become Lord Commander, then King in the North. "You once said you were not a soldier but a fighter. And you've proven yourself by surviving the impossible."

"I  _am_  a fighter."

"Then I hope you are ready to fight for my sister," he concluded.

Gendry was taken aback. He stared at Jon, confused, but elated by his approval. Was he setting a trap? "I love her."

"Every person who has lived through the Long Night loves her. She is the Bringer of Dawn, the saviour of humanity. What makes you any different than all those people?"

"I don't care about any of that," argued Gendry with passion, his fists tightening. "I've loved her before that night!"

"Why have you never told me that you knew her then?"

Gendry's resolve faltered, and he looked down. "You're her favourite brother, I feared your reaction if I told you that I had her with me, only to let her go and be killed at the Red Wedding. I thought her dead, and she's-she's a Lady, I was but a bastard."

Jon nodded sombrely in understanding and walked up to him. He was shorter than Gendry, and the smith had to look down at him. Despite that, he felt very small under the scrutiny.

"You seem to forget that I am also a bastard," he said, but he seemed tormented. "And yet, you say that I am her favourite brother. She may have a special place in her heart for bastards and outcasts, but it's because I understand Arya. She does not like to be paraded around. She  _is_  a Lady, but only in title."

Gendry's eyes widened in understanding and he felt stupid,  _so_  stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i lied last chapter lmao  
> there will be more to this story, not too much, maybe even one chapter if I feel the story to be reaching its completion.  
> I had no intention of including episode 4 in the story. i wanted to take a tangent to the show, but the episode just left me extremely frustrated, especially the dialogue. I loved the part with Gendry and Arya though, it was in character, and it made so much sense that she would refuse to be his lady.  
> I still have hope tho  
> thanks for reading guys, leave a comment, they make my day, and til next time! Very very soon


	4. and we shone brighter

 

"Did you know that when you are born in the Crownlands, your bastard name is not Rivers, but Waters?"

That was the first thing Arya said to him when he found her. She had known he was there without even looking, focused on shooting arrows like she was readying for another fight. Gendry was both proud and annoyed by the fact. She never seemed to want to take a break, breathe a little. She thought that danger was around  _every_  corner.

"You mean to tell me that you knew all this time, but never bothered to correct me?" he asked, affronted by the idea.

Arya smirked, still aiming her arrow at the target. "I  _chose_  not to correct you. You seemed oddly convinced by it. I must admit, it gave Hot Pie and I a good laugh."

"I feel like an idiot," he grumbled, rubbing his beard.

She turned around, her arm still extended. "You're not an idiot, stupid."

She released her arm, and without looking, hit the bull's eye. Gendry did not know whether he should be afraid or aroused.  _Definitely aroused_ , he thought, watching her remove the arrows from the target.

"I-" he started, unsure of what he wanted to say. He saw her brow twitch, and he swallowed nervously. "About what happened at the hall-"

She sighed, setting the arrows aside and finally looking at him expectedly.

"I was no one before," he continued. "Just a bastard amongst others."

"I know about being No One," she whispered almost ominously, slowly walking up to him. "You were never no one. You were always someone to me."

"Arya," he said.

"But you're a Baratheon now," she stated. "I'm happy that you've finally found a name for yourself. But it does not matter to me what name you go by. I already know who you are."

"I had a name," he retorted passionately. "Gendry  _Waters_. It's the name you've always known me by and if that's what you want me to be, that's what I will be."

"You say that you were no one before the queen  _made_  you a Baratheon, and yet you insist upon your bastard name," she snapped angrily at the implication. "Make up your mind!"

"What about you? You say that you want me, yet you run away with your tail between your legs at the first sign of responsibility. What about what  _I_  want?"

They both stood there, facing each other, chests heaving with exertion. Gendry could stand in the forgery all day, hammering away, transporting weapons, and working on the heaviest and hardest metals to shape, but nothing drained him as much as facing Arya Stark has.

"What is it that  _you_  want?" she said. "To be a Lord, or to be Gendry  _Waters_?"

" _I don't know!"_  he nearly screamed. He looked into her gray eyes, where a storm was brewing, and Gendry felt lost in them for a moment, his heart in his throat ready to be heaved at her feet. Yet, he felt alight, and the words came spilling out like a torrent. "I don't know how to be a Lord, and I don't know how to be a bastard anymore. All I know is that you're beautiful, I love you, and none of it would be worth anything if you're not by my side," he said, kneeling in front of her and taking her hands in his. "So be my wife."

Her eyes widened, and Gendry did not miss the rosy hue that came upon her cheeks. The effect his words had on her made him giddy with pleasure. "Have you been drinking?"

"No! I mean, yes, but that was hours ago. I'm no longer buzzed," he said, staring up at her. "So what do you say? Do you want to be  _my_  Lady?"

She flinched at the word, but her eyes nonetheless softened at his eagerness, and she dared to entertain the thought of being his wife for just a moment. But the fleeting thought passed, and she knelt with him. She held his face in her hands with unexpected delicacy, and gently placed her lips on his for a lingering kiss. She stood up with him, and slowly, her lips left his. "I'm not a lady, I've never been one-"

"I know, I know, I don't want you to be one," he cut her off, and there was something raw, something jagged in his voice that made her quiver with emotion. "The queen has it all wrong, I don't  _need_  a Lady. I want you, and I don't care about anything else. You never have to wear a dress, you can  _live_  in breeches if you'd like. You don't have to attend any meetings with any Lords. You can teach young boys and young girls to fight, to wield a sword, or to shoot arrows _._ I want you to be whoever you want."

Arya stared for a moment, recalling her time in Braavos. The House of Black and White required her to strip of all identity she possessed. It was something she was never able to do, something she had a feeling she would never accomplish from the moment she had decided to hide needle. One who is certain of their anonymity does not keep a piece of their past. But a girl was never meant to be a faceless man. A girl was always meant to be in Winterfell, to be  _Arya Stark_. A girl fought for her right to be herself, and the blood on her hands was proof of all she went through, all she  _did_  to get here with her family. Hearing Gendry tell her that he wanted her to be whoever she wanted painted the stark contrast of the situation she was in compared to the time she almost died to retain her identity.

"I've been someone else for a very long time," she finally said, almost to herself.

"Then you can be Arya Stark with me, you don't owe me anything _._  I- _I want to fight for you, but I do not want to fight you."_

She looked down, and smiled bemusedly at the ground. "I lay with you once, and now you want to make me your wife? Did you marry those three other girls as well?"

He stared for a moment, before looking away from her. "I never lain with those girls. I lied."

She looked at him, surprised. "Why would you lie to me? You know I that I would never begrudge you for it."

"I don't know," he admitted. "I thought you would tease me, like you would when we were younger."

"Why haven't you?" she asked.

"What about?"

"Why haven't you lain with other girls?"

He looked back at her, their hands still joined, ignoring the ruckus of drunkards walking by them in the background. "Pretty girls were never interested in a boy covered in grime and soot, and I was too poor to seek it. Then we were on the run, and when the Red Woman took me, she forced herself on me and I never wanted to touch another woman after that. Until you."

Her eyes hardened at the mention of that witch, and her grip on his hands tightened. "I think her death was not painful enough. If she were alive, she's wish she'd never met me again."

Gendry sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. "I've heard tales of my father's whoremongering and drinking. I was always afraid of fathering bastards. I came close to-to being with a few girls, but I could never let myself go through it. With you, it was different. I didn't know whether I would live to see the light of day. If I did live through that night, I would never forgive myself for refusing you."

"If you refused me and died fighting the dead, I think your father would berate you in the afterlife," teased Arya.

He raised his brow at the implication. "They say you look exactly like Lyanna Stark."

"There's a statue of her in the crypts," she informed him, shuddering at the mention of the place that nearly took her sister's life. "She was a little taller."

"I think everyone's at least a little taller than you," teased Gendry. "That's why you're such a pain in my arse. There's too much anger in that little body of yours."

She hit his shoulder playfully, and just like that, the tension was diffused. "That's not the way a Lord should speak. Plus, you seemed to like my little body."

The young smith bit his lips, his eyes running over her frame, and Arya felt her knees weaken at the evidence of his desire; desire for her, Arya Horseface, the little girl who never wanted to be a Lady, the little girl who was never as beautiful as her sister.

"I do," he breathed out, and Arya felt need course through her body. Need not fuelled by the imminence of death, but a steady need; a need to take it slow, to bask in the moment, to feel him on her, around her, and  _inside_  of her. But she could only stare at him, as he stared back expectedly, and she realized that she hadn't given him an answer yet.

"Yes," she said, after a moment.

"Yes what?" he asked, confused.

"I'll be yours, or whatever being by your side means, if we both live through this."

Gendry smiled, his grin blindingly joyful, and Arya felt her heart swell at how  _good_  it looked on him; happiness. He looked positively stunning, delight radiating through every pore of his body. He took her into his arms, and her feet no longer felt the ground underneath her. If she were not a trained assassin, Arya would have screamed, but instead, she merely held him, her face split into a grin mirroring his.

When he put her back down, she saw his eyes glistening with unshed tears, and she felt guilt at having almost denied him. "I don't care if you're a Lord either. If you want to be a Lord, you will have to use someone else's help, for I do not know lordship. Sometimes I will leave, but I promise that I'll always come back. I cannot say yet that I  _want_  to give you children; I can't even say that I  _can_  have children."

His hand trailed down her sides, picturing those scars he saw littering her beautiful skin.

"We'll adopt, as many bastards as we can," he babbled. "I will feed them, give them a home, I'll take an heir."

"If we have children, I want the eldest to be your successor, boy  _or_  girl," she insisted.

"Anything, of course," he replied.

"You'll have to tell Jon,  _alone_ ," she taunted him.

He smiled. "I told you, I will fight for you, even if it means facing your scary brother who came back from the dead. Besides, I've already talked to Jon."

"He knows?" she exclaimed. "If you're here with me and not six feet under, it must mean that he approves of you."

Gendry nodded. "I believe he does. He's the one who talked to me. He knocked some sense into me."

"Are we talking about the same Jon?" exclaimed Arya, laughing slightly. "It's like the blind leading the blind."

"Are you saying that I'm an idiot?" he asked quizzically.

"You're not an idiot, I've already told you. You're just stupid. Jon, on the other hand, is an idiot. He roared at a bloody  _dragon_ ," she laughed despite herself. She had a hard time sneaking past them when it happened. The urge to stop and curse him out for his stupidity had been strong. "Did you tell him  _everything_?"

Gendry reddened. "No, not  _everything_. He knows that I love you, and he knows of my intentions to be with you."

Her eyes softened, she took a deep breath, dreading the next part. "I still have my list. It's not finished."

"Then I will help you finish it," he said, with as much conviction as his voice could muster.

The idea if having him follow her on a near-suicide mission made her shudder in fear. So many have already died, some ever for her. She still pictured Beric's face every time she closed her eyes, the way he was hanging limp while the dead took turns stabbing his body, and she thought,  _never again_.

"I can't let you, it's too dangerous. Besides, it's something I must do by myself," she said, and he nodded in understanding.

"As long as you come back."

"As long as I come back."

* * *

Many moons later, when the Mad Queen was dead, and the Mountain but a memory, a girl returned to her home. The smith was first at the gate, walking past the throngs of people awaiting their saviour. He could hardly stand still on his feet, his smile brighter than any star the gods had put in the sky.

The girl jumped off her horse, her trepidation better concealed than the boy's, but nonetheless still visible. But one should not be mistaken; a girl was not a lady. She was a fighter, a killer, a saviour, but also a lover.

The girl walked towards the smith with determination, and once she reached him, looked up into his eyes. The girl was much shorter, but the boy felt so much smaller than her.

"You're still here," she concluded, staring him up and down. "I thought you would not waste your time waiting for me. A lordship awaits you."

"Aye, I am still here, and you would be a fool to think that waiting for you is a waste," he replied, standing tall and proud.

"Well, it took a while, but I made it back," she said, referencing a prior conversation they had shared. "Ask me again."

He looked into her eyes, his head clearer and his voice steadier than the last time. "Be my wife."

The girl looked annoyed for a second, clicking her tongue. "No, not that one, the other one."

His eyes widened in realization, and he smiled, his grin contagious, and she could not help but mirror it. "Be my family."

Her eyes blurred with unshed tears, and she grabbed the front of his tunic, pulling him down to her level.

"That, I can do.  _I can be your family_ ," she whispered, before kissing him.

* * *

 ** _Fin_**.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading my little story. I loved writing it, and I hope you all liked reading it!
> 
> Leave a comment, what you thought about this chapter, or about the story as a whole.
> 
> See you guys soon!

**Author's Note:**

> been refreshing the tag nonstop since the new season dropped cause im obsessed with this ship and after so many years of waiting im THRIVING babyyyyyyy
> 
> haven't written in years, but it's that time of the year where I become obsessed with Game of Thrones again, and it has brought me back my friends! yeehaw
> 
> i don't know if I'm going to stop this after two chapters or if I'll continue it after. We will see!  
> Chapter 2 to drop before next week's episode lmao
> 
> sorry if it's full of mistakes, wrote this in the dead of night and immediately put it out before i lost my inspiration and resolve hihihihi


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